


Fall From Grace

by motherlucius



Series: Scattered [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Betrayal, M/M, Prequel, Talon Hanzo Shimada
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-04 19:12:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17903912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motherlucius/pseuds/motherlucius
Summary: Hanzo Shimada had been stabbed in the back, but never like this.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prequel to my previous Doomfist/Hanzo fanfiction, A man and his dog, which is currently be re-written.

The outside air nipped at Hanzo’s nose and ears. He checked his watch, glanced at the street names of the corner he was standing on, and stuffed his hands back into his jacket pockets. There were only a few street lights on, but standing around for this long in the middle of the night still made him nervous. He didn’t want to draw the attention of authorities. 

Then, from an alleyway next to the motel, Hanzo saw the brim of the cowboy’s hat. A gloved hand waved him over. Hanzo picked up his bow’s case and half-walked half-jogged to the dark alley. “You took your sweet time,” He said, blowing into his hands. 

“Sorry, darlin,” Jesse McCree said. Hanzo watched as shadowy hands lit a cigarette witch softly illuminated Jesse’s rugged features from under his hat. “I got distracted.” 

Hanzo scoffed. “We should go set up, the target will be coming through any time now.” 

“I’m all good here,” McCree gave a smirk. 

He shook his head--he wanted to trust McCree this time, but had a creeping feeling things would go haywire. Nevertheless, Hanzo set his case on the ground and stringed his bow. He counted out three arrows--two just in case their target had more manpower than what they expected, and shouldered his quiver. Hanzo rubbed his hands together before climbing up a ladder to the top of the motel. McCree hadn’t said a word, or hardly looked at him while he did this. 

He sat on the roof, watching the street for the van described to him by his employer. They didn’t have to wait long--as a white van pulled into the parking lot. Hanzo laid low, waiting for McCree to cause a distraction. From the back of a van jumped out two large body guards, then a smaller figure that could only be Lucio Correia dos Santos. Jesse walked out from the alleway, bandanna pulled over his nose and mouth. He interrupted them as planned, but seemed hesitant. He glanced up at Hanzo’s position, and it was then Hanzo wished he could have heard the words exchanged between dos Santos and McCree. Lucio got back in the van and it drove away, Hanzo cursed. He knocked an arrow and sent it flying through one of the bodyguard’s head. He killed the other one, too. 

Hanzo knocked his third arrow, and stood to his full height. McCree had taken cover behind a parked vehicle. “Traiter!” Hanzo yelled. 

“This ain’t just, Shimada!” Jesse yelled back. 

“Does it matter?!” Hanzo felt the rage of betrayal coursing through his veins, he jumped down from the roof to the balcony. He no longer cared if anyone noticed. 

“I have a damn code!” 

“Fuck your code! Peak your head, coward, so I can put an arrow between your eyes!” 

McCree stood, revolver drawn and pointed at Hanzo. “Just put it down, Hanzo,” He said. Then, sirens sounded from down the street. 

“Fine,” Hanzo said. “I won’t forget this, Jesse McCree.” 

“Neither will I.” 

Hanzo climbed back onto the roof. He retrieved his bow’s case and fled. Something in his chest ached, and he wasn’t sure if it was for McCree or himself.


	2. Chapter 2

Most days, Hanzo Shimada floated from one place to another, picking up assassination jobs where he could. They paid pretty well, and weren’t exactly sparse, but he couldn’t stay in one place long. Old and new enemies were around every corner, searching and praying, ready for a chance to strike the Shimada Clan’s heir. For the time being, he resided in the American west, which had been decimated during the First Omnic Crisis. Not much remained besides the occasional vulture and disgruntled outcasts. Any authority that was left was trying to squash gang activity that had continued throughout the years. Hanzo had managed to sneak into the cargo compartment of a train further east, and after living off scraps of food and a bottle of water for two days, he arrived in New Mexico with a fresh appetite for something new. 

He had been to the American west only once before, when he was much younger and blinded by his father’s ways. It was strictly business, but he remembered how much he disliked the dry desert air. 

Leaving the train station, Hanzo followed some rusted signs to a small diner. Through the front doors, he was greeted by vintage signs hung on every surface. A jukebox that had to be a hundred years old played tinny rock n’ roll from lost times, and at the counter stood a woman with a mechanical hand looking at her phone. She noticed Hanzo just as he sat on one of the barstools, gave him a lukewarm greeting and  a menu, then went into the kitchen for a brief moment. Hanzo glanced around him, there was one other customer, who was laid back in own of the worn booths staring out the window and, noticeably, with a revolver at his hip. 

The server came back with a glass of water, and asked what Hanzo wanted. He gave her his order and she disappeared into the kitchen again. Hanzo felt eyes on him, heard footsteps approach, and saw the other man sit next to him. 

“Don’t get many visitors,” He said, his voice gruff and deep and very American. 

Hanzo didn’t reply. 

“You here for work?” 

“Why do you ask?” Hanzo said, his eyes narrowed on the stranger. 

“Hey, partner, I’m just wondering,” He chuckled light heartedly. “I may have a gig if you are.” 

The kitchen doors opened and the server returned with the sandwich Hanzo ordered, neatly cut in two and with a healthy pile of chips. “What kind of job are we talking about?” 

“I think you know,” He slid Hanzo a folded napkin, gave him an all to knowing wink, and walked out of the restaurant. Hanzo lifted the edge of the napkin, and scrawled in messy handwriting was a phone number and the name  _ Jesse McCree. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is turning out to be longer than I thought I would, but I'm going to keep it down to these shorter chapters. More to come soon (:


End file.
